


Late November

by Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)



Series: Project Eclipse [15]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Gore, Crime Scenes, Disembowelment, Dismemberment, Gangs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murder, Necrophilia, On Hiatus, Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In November of 2016, a string of serial killings is making the residents of Minneapolis paranoid. Lieutenant Abraham Caesar is too loopy for the case and may be running in circles chasing his own tail, so Commissioner Cyrus Fowler assigns Officer Feliz Florence to the case. However, when Feliz is lassoed in by not only the killer but by another criminal, which side will he choose?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November 1st

            In his mind, he was a tern.

            Such a statement was a contradiction of logic, yes, for he was in fact human. However, for him, it was always easier to see humans as other forms of what they really were at their base; animals driven by primal desires such as greed, pride, and lust.

            His name was Abraham Caesar, and he was a lieutenant for the Minneapolis Police Department. He was a very strange man, as his co-workers had come to learn rather quickly. He had an air of eloquence about him, and a cordial yet burlesque attitude, but his written words were very often illegible. So to speak, he was merely a diverse man that admired the lottery, and also a cuckold; his wife thought it necessary to repulse her husband with adultery on her part, for she pictured him as nothing more than a stain of mucus on her life.

            His unfaithful wife was no concern to him though, for honestly, he had never really paid much attention to her. It was always the work before the pleasure for Lieutenant Caesar, and he refused to cease working. His current case was for certain the one that captivated him the most.

            Tom Palumbo. Lieutenant Caesar felt that Tom was very much like a pigeon, so that was what he envisioned him as. When he examined Tom’s last known place of residence, he found that the man (or rather, to him, the _pigeon_ ) liked to keep his place very orderly, almost as if he had some sort of compulsion toward cleanliness. However, he had been labelled by the press as the precursor of doom, since he was mentally unstable, and had in fact already murdered several people.

            Tom’s latest victim was a man named Bill Grant, and directly before him, his wife, Mary. The crime scene, the married couple’s house, was a nightmare for the rookies assigned to check it out with Lieutenant Caesar. There was blood everywhere. Mary’s naked corpse lay mangled in a knocked over green trash bin in the middle of the living room. Her intestines were wrapped around her almost like a magnificent decorative bow, and her cheeks were sawn open with a blade to create the illusion of a huge smile on her face.

            From the bruises on her supple breasts and the dried semen that could still be seen on her despite the blood, it was obvious to Lieutenant Caesar that Tom not only had fun with Mary, but also didn’t seem to care about incriminating evidence.

            Lieutenant Caesar preened his feathers as an officer threw up just outside. In his mind, he soared over the ocean of crime, and he felt the powerful desire to destroy it all with the powers of justice and Jesus Christ. He snapped back into reality when he saw Mary blink, but he quickly realized that he had simply experienced a small crick in his neck that brought on a hallucination. Back in his imagination, one of his tail feathers fell off. They had been doing so every so often for a while, and Lieutenant Caesar knew that was a sign that he wasn’t well despite what the doctors told him. He had realized about a year earlier that his medical records were now the only indelible part of him.

            Lieutenant Caesar’s mind drifted back to Tom Palumbo. Tom’s predecessor had been the most polite of the entire family line. However, when he did blunder and do something impolite, Tom was aware, and as a show of his power decided to paint his relative red by cutting right through his tibia with a chainsaw from the back shed. The unspoken rule over the family was then passed down to Tom, as the incident was seen as nothing more than an unfortunate accident.

            Yet, no matter how strong he was mentally, Tom was physically as weak as grass. Talk spread fast that he had begun to look emaciated. With a creak in his frail, slender limbs, it was a surprise to many that he could commit such dastardly deeds, especially with his fear of being unclean. How could he possibly tolerate the blood from the murders? Hell, how could he go so far as rape? It didn’t make sense to Lieutenant Caesar, not entirely, but he knew it was true. He was stuck within a deep conundrum with only one answer that contradicted logic but at the same time made perfect sense.

            Lieutenant Caesar was determined to put Tom Palumbo on the cross, where he would chortle at him. Thinking of this, he wondered if Tom would ever surrender. _Not until late November_ , he thought for some reason. The goal was to make sure Tom went to Heaven. Lieutenant Caesar was sure the kid was a nice guy once, at least before everything went to shit. If need be, he would tear Tom’s psyche apart until all he would be able to do was pray for forgiveness, even if he wasn’t sure that such a feat was even possible anymore.

            “Lieutenant?”

            Lieutenant Caesar snapped once more out of his thoughts and turned his head to the rookie that stood beside him, who was quivering as through he’d just walked into the personal space of a frightful tyrant.

            “What do you make of all this?” He asked.

            The lieutenant took a once over of Bill Grant’s corpse. It wasn’t nearly as much of a display as Mary’s. It was almost as if killing Bill had been nothing more than a second thought to Tom.

            “Well,” Lieutenant Caesar began, “It’s clear that Mrs. Grant here was attacked and raped. Her husband looks like he was an afterthought. Perhaps he walked in while his wife was being killed. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to know.”

            “Wasn’t supposed to know? Look around. I don’t really think that whoever did this had any intention of cleaning up after himself.”

            “What I meant is that this was probably meant to be some sort of sick surprise for the husband.”

            “Well, it’s certainly sick. I can’t wait to see the fucker that did this behind bars.”

            “Be patient, kid. It’ll happen eventually, I promise, but not until _I’m_ done with him.” With that said, Lieutenant Caesar turned his back to the corpses and exited the crime scene to return to his car so he could report the bad news back to the station.


	2. November 2nd

            Looking into the mirror, Aaron Prichard finished combing his scarlet orange hair. He let out a sigh as he stepped out of the bathroom.

            “Feliz,” He called out, “Are you ready to go yet?”

            “Not quite,” A Latino voice called back.

            Following the sound of the voice to the living room, Aaron found Feliz Florence, his Mexican roommate, sitting in front of the television. The channel he was watching was broadcasting a wrestling match. Feliz, wearing nothing but his briefs and a black tank top, watched the match with a curious enthusiasm visible in his eyes, which left and right were blue and gold respectively.

            “I thought you hated wrestling.” Aaron pointed out.

            “Oh, I do. It’s just funny to see how hard they try to make this garbage seem genuine.”

            Aaron shook his head; he was bored just by the thought of watching wrestling. “Come on, get dressed already.”

            “ _Por qué?_ ” Feliz asked in a tone that made Aaron wonder whether or not it was a serious question.

            “Uh, because we have work? The commissioner called us in, and—”

            “Uggh.” With a groan, Feliz lowered his face into the palm of his left hand, on which he wore a white fingerless glove and a silver ring with a light blue gem. Noticing it, Aaron pondered as he always did where exactly Feliz had come into possession of such an exquisite piece of jewelry, but he shook it off.

            “What’s the matter with you?”

            “The commissioner hates me, Aaron, that’s what the matter with me is.”

            “He doesn’t hate you.”

            “But he does.”

            Aaron thought for a moment. “… Okay, you’re probably right. But you have to keep in mind that he _is_ xenophobic.”

            “Don’t be a dick, Aaron.” Feliz responded playfully, squinting his heterochromic eyes at the man standing beside him.

            “I’ll stop being a dick when you get dressed.”

            “Fair enough.”

            When Feliz wandered into his bedroom to get dressed, Aaron looked at the clock.

            “Fuck! We’re going to be late. Hurry up!”

            “Yeah, yeah!” Feliz shouted back.

            Aaron waited about thirty seconds before he glanced down at his watch and shouted, “I’ll be waiting in the car!”

            Taking the lack of a response as acknowledgement, Aaron headed outside, stepping into his red convertible to wait for Feliz. It took five minutes for the Mexican to join him, now dressed in black boots that overlapped his same-color skinny jeans, and a pale crème dress shirt with a light brown jacket over top.

            “Took you long enough.” Aaron complained as he blindly checked to make sure he was buckled in.

            “Blame your brother. He woke up and wanted food.”

            Aaron thought about his younger brother, Bo, who had about as much intelligence as a roasted peanut, and cringed inwardly. “Did you feed him?”

            “I improvised.”

            “Whatever needs doing.” He responded before actually taking a look at Feliz and adding in a nagging drone, “When are you going to stop wearing skinny jeans? It’s nearly winter.”

            “I’ll stop wearing skinny jeans when you start wearing a coat.”

            “Fair enough.”

            As Aaron drove, Feliz stuck his head out of the window, a habit of his. The action was slightly ironic, seeing as Feliz and Aaron were both officers of the law, and sticking your head out of a car window was technically illegal, but he still did it all the time like some sort of excited dog. However, it was only at that moment that Aaron wondered if Feliz did it to make some sort of statement, seeing as he and their boss, Commissioner Cyrus Fowler, never saw eye to eye on anything.

            It was about ten minutes or so later that the duo of plainclothes officers arrived at the station.

            “Let’s get this over with.” Feliz sighed as he stepped out. Aaron followed him.

            “Look, I’m not too happy about this, either. I’d much rather be spending my Wednesday working out or something.” He said.

            “I’m just not looking forward to the hatred I’m about to face.”

            “You won’t get any hate.”

            “HEY, MEXICAN MONGREL!!”

            Standing at that point in front of the Commissioner’s office, Feliz shot Aaron a look that said “I told you so”. Aaron only discreetly shrugged.

            Commissioner Cyrus Fowler, a tiny little fat man with slicked-back orange hair, marched forward with a very, _very_ disgruntled face. It was obvious to anyone who looked at him that he _hated_ Feliz Florence with a passion. Feliz responded with a nasty look of his own, though it was considerably more subtle. Either that, or he was simply more attractive, which was rather likely.

            “I have a name, you know?” Feliz spoke.

            “Yeah, yeah, Fernando.”

            Feliz opened his mouth to correct the angry Commissioner, but decided against it when he realized that was probably the closest he had ever come to actually getting his name right. The realization came with a faint feeling of dread; if Fowler was desperate enough to actually _try_ to get his name right, some sort of emergency must have been afoot.

            “Into my office. Both of you, now.” Fowler commanded as he turned and headed back for the door he’d emerged from moments before. Feliz and Aaron exchanged a mutually worried glance before following their boss into the cramped room.

            “There’s something I need you two to take care of.” Fowler confessed.

            Feliz raised a brow. “That’s a first. I assume you tried someone else first?”

            “Of course,” The small man admit casually, “I had Lieutenant Caesar take the case. His office is just over there.” He gestured to the left of Feliz, to a window that revealed another cramped office. “But there was a problem with my decision.”

            “Being?” Aaron questioned.

            “He’s kind of been, er… Well, running around in circles, chasing his own tail. He’s determined there’s some sort of satanic ritual involved, and he’s completely distracted by trying to find out how to perform an exorcism. Says he’ll need it later.” At that very moment, as if for comical effect, papers scattered around Lieutenant Caesar’s office, and with them, Caesar could be heard screaming “ _FUCK!_ ” at the top of his lungs.

            “What is it you need us to do?” Feliz skipped right to the point.

            “There’s a vicious killer on the loose. His name is Thomas Palumbo.” From a stack of papers on his desk, Fowler pulled out a picture. “He was seen late yesterday evening at a local drycleaners.”

            Feliz looked at the picture, which was taken from a security camera, and narrowed his eyes. “White hair?”

            “No, actually, it’s like, light purple or some shit.”

            “Lavender or periwinkle?”

            “Does it fucking matter, Fernando? I want you and Prichard to catch this fucker before he kills someone else!”

            “With all due respect, sir,” Aaron chimed in, “We’ll need a little more info than a blurry picture.”

            “You’ll work with what you’re given when you’re given it.” Fowler snarled. “Now get the fuck out of my office.”

            “And do what, exactly?” The Mexican officer pondered aloud.

            “And go fuck yourself, I don’t know! Do something productive to the case! Go question the neighbors or some shit!”

            “Questioning the neighbors it is. Questioning what neighbors?”

            “Just talk to my goddamned assistant.”

            “Will do.” Feliz chirped as he and Aaron left the office of the rude Commissioner. Once he was alone, Fowler leaned forward in his chair.

            “Fuckin’ Mexican asshole.” He grumbled to himself, silently hoping Feliz Florence would get hit by a bus sometime soon.


	3. The Night of November 2nd

            There was a general ill will between Lieutenant Abraham Caesar and his wife, Mabel. They both lacked the initiative required to resume their puppy love, for the stimulus was gone; misplaced by Lieutenant Caesar in his faith for Jesus Christ. Mabel, the jurist of their household, had hit an all-time low, and like a spider she secretly crept away, inimically drunk on a noxious, fastidious sexual appetite. Sanity wasn’t a concept that occurred to Lieutenant Caesar very often, but he thought his wife had none to cheat on him. Now she was damning herself to Hell, and what could he do but watch and mourn?

            From that point forth, their relationship was as toxic as Lieutenant Caesar was pious, but that was just the problem. Despite his wife’s betrayal of Jesus, Lieutenant Caesar still stood by the verse from Ephesians 5:25 that read, “ _Married men, love your wives, as Christ also loved the Church and gave Himself up to death for her_ ”. No matter how unfaithful his wife was, to both Christ and himself, Caesar was determined to be as dedicated to her as any good, Catholic husband should be. That was why he wasn’t annoyed when he found the front door of their modest little home to be hanging open when he returned. It wasn’t a very good neighborhood, not even for a man of his age, so he simply sat on the lawn for a little while, dreaming again of being a tern and soaring through the dark gray clouds that were illuminated ever so slightly by moonlight.

            Lieutenant Caesar thought of Tom Palumbo. He knew, deep down, that the man was planning something big, and he had a strangely strong feeling that it was a plan to summon a demon into the world. That meant that Tom was playing with fire; the fire of the Devil himself, to be more exact. He wondered how exactly Palumbo would manage such a feat, but regardless of how, he needed a means to dispose of the demon, but it was actually quite difficult, he discovered, to find a complete version of any exorcism chant. The only ones he could find were faked from movies, and for once the bible provided him no solace.

            He had little information to go on in terms of Tom’s location. Although the killer was born in and likely only lived in Minneapolis, it was still a rather large city to search with no lead. As a tern, he pictured himself flying over a map of the city. There were a couple streets that, for no reason in particular, Caesar felt needed to be highlighted, but he couldn’t narrow down which one Palumbo would be staying at. In that moment, he prayed for an answer, but there was none. He would have to do his task alone, he realized, at least until the time was right for God to provide help. He wasn’t desperate enough for divine intervention yet.

            There needed to be a pattern, the lieutenant rationalized. Something that marked someone as a victim. Just as suddenly as he thought that, it hit him like a brick wall. Almost literally, since his tern-self slammed into a brick wall and lost a few more tail feathers when the idea struck him; _the key was adultery._

            All of Tom’s previous victims had a history of cheating on their spouse. That meant that Mary Grant must have been cheating on Bill. Also, he realized, it was usually the husbands reporting the murders, and for a while they had been the prime suspects. Bill Grant had been the first husband to be killed, simply because he had walked in too soon. But if that was the case, then it appeared that Tom had a _lot_ of ground to cover. There were, sadly, a lot of cheaters in the world, never mind Minneapolis. There must have been a second factor. Something else that added them to the list of victims, something that narrowed the list down. But he was unable to think of anything.

            Deciding he had given his wife enough time, Lieutenant Caesar stood up off of the lawn and walked into the house. He closed the front door and took off his long brown coat, hanging it up and hanging beside it him bulletproof vest, which he wore over his white dress shirt. It was only then that he noticed the odd smell. Something in the house smelled of… soap? The pungent smell of dish detergent wafted from the kitchen like a less-offensive dead skunk, and Caesar choked a bit.

            On the kitchen counter, there was a bottle of soap. It was not a bottle of soap that he or Mabel would ever buy; some was never really on the forefront of either of their minds, especially not Mabel’s, not with how she was always so furious at her husband just for existing. Then, his amber eyes glanced to the right.

            All of the dishes were washed. If he wasn’t so Catholic, he would’ve “sworn to Christ” that one of them sparkled at him like pearly white teeth do in the cartoons.

 _This isn’t right_ , he thought, _Mabel never washes the dishes._

            “Mabel?” He called. The answer was an eerie silence that would’ve made the hair on the back of any normal guy’s neck stand on end. Unfortunately, Lieutenant Caesar was not a “normal guy”, so he processed it only as a normal silence. “Mabel, are you awake?”

            Maybe she was coming around. Maybe she really did love him, after all. A warm smile crossed Lieutenant Caesar’s weathered face as he reached for the tiny cross he wore on a string around his neck and cupped it in his hand. Maybe his prayers had been answered in a different way. He could save his wife’s soul and join her in Heaven at the end. Still overcome by a feeling of love and hope, Caesar poked his head into the bedroom he still shared with his wife. Even though they hated each other, they had opted to stay in the same bed simply because it was warmer beside someone (and they were both too lazy to set up any alternate solution). The lights were out in the room, and Mabel lay still under the covers. Caesar was finally happy that they had decided to still sleep in the same bed.

            After getting undressed into his briefs and a white undershirt, Lieutenant Caesar lift the covers of the bed in the dark and laid down beside his wife. After a moment of hesitation, he extended his arm and draped it over Mabel. He discovered through that gesture that his wife was asleep in bed fully clothed in what felt like some sort of thick, suit-like fabric, but he wouldn’t judge.

            “Darling,” He murmured, “My darling Mabel.” He felt Mabel shivering somewhat, which was odd since she must have been boiling under her clothes and the thick blanket. “I was afraid you were really done with me. I’m so pleased that you’ve finally come around for me, my love.” Against his nose, Mabel’s hair felt silky smooth… Another red flag that Caesar dismissed, figuring that if Mabel had washed the dishes, maybe she had actually showered for once, too. Her hair smelled vaguely of vanilla. Caesar wasn’t complaining.

            At least, Caesar wasn’t complaining until he felt nature’s call and realized he had forgotten to go to the bathroom before getting into bed. “I shall return,” He said as he got out of the bed and left the bedroom, walking down the hallway to the bathroom. The doorknob felt a little bit slippery, but he paid it no mind, forcing it open.

            His bathroom had been white, but now it was red. In the bathtub lay Mabel, who was chopped up into tiny little pieces. The only reason Caesar could recognize her was her head, which lay on top of the pile with her underwear stuffed into her mouth.

            Lieutenant Caesar could do nothing but stare. He slowly closed the door, waited for a moment, and then reopened it to the same scene. He did this once more, twice more, thrice more, before he closed the door one last time and limped with wobbling legs back to the bedroom.

            The bed was now empty.

            Tom Palumbo had been right under his nose, quite literally in his grasp, and still he got away again.

            Lieutenant Caesar could only clutch the cross around his neck in shocked distress.


	4. November 3rd

            “Mabel Caesar is dead.”

            The announcement, made in a strangely calm manner by Commissioner Fowler, got a rather small reaction from Aaron Prichard, but none whatsoever from Feliz Florence.

            “Mabel Caesar? You mean... Lieutenant Caesar’s wife?” Aaron asked awkwardly after a rather long pause.

            “That’s right. You guys know who killed her?” Fowler was beginning to show signs of resisting fury, which caused Feliz to lower his head, since the Mexican knew what was coming. Aaron, uncertain, shrugged, only for his boss to explode into rage.  
           “THE LITTLE PRICK THAT YOU GUYS WERE ASSIGNED TO CATCH!!”

            “How were we to know who he would target next?” Florence asked in defense.

            “Well, maybe if you’d stop twiddling your thumbs up each other’s asses and actually do something useful, you two cocksuckers would’ve!!” Fowler countered.

            Feliz stood at that point, now towering over Fowler, though he himself only stood at 5’7”. “What did you expect us to do? Just magically find him? We questioned the neighbors, and they gave us nothing!”

            Pointing his fat little index finger in Florence’s face as if daring him to bite down like some sort of wild animal, Fowler snarled, “Don’t you dare give me any attitude, you goddamned tacohead.”

            Looking at his partner, Aaron could read murder in the Mexican’s eyes, so he stepped forward. “Feliz.” He said apprehensively. Feliz looked at him, and his gaze softened before he tore his eyes away from both men in the room and looked down at himself.

            “Whatever.” He said as he stuck his hand into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and briefly sifted through it before looking up at Aaron. “I’m going to Taco Bell. You coming?”

            Aaron, for a long moment, wasn’t sure how to react. The change in topic was a non sequitur of course, but one that actually possessed some logic and possibly even irony, since Fowler had just referred to Florence as a “tacohead”. He wondered if the question was sarcastic, but Florence held the stare with a somewhat impatient look on his face.

            “Well?” His roommate asked.

            “You’re... You’re serious?”

            “Yeah.”

            Aaron shook his head. “No. I’m fine. You go and cool off, or... whatever.”

            Feliz shrugged. “Suit yourself,” He replied as he put his wallet back into his pocket and turned to leave.

            “While you’re out doing Mexican things,” Fowler offered sardonically, “perhaps maybe you’ll consider actually _doing your fucking job._ ”

            “ _Besa mi culo, puto._ ” Feliz sung as he left.

            “Just give me one reason, _ONE_ FUCKING REASON, to fire your ass, and I’ll use it!” Fowler hollered at him. Aaron, meanwhile, simply sunk his face into his palm and sighed deeply.

* * *

 

            Feliz Florence sat at a semi-circular bar-like table attached to the middle divide in the closest Taco Bell he could find. He didn’t care if it was a stereotype; he really liked tacos, and the mention of them in a colorful slur had brought on a sudden craving. With his head resting against the palm of his right hand, he sat in silence with his eyes shut, trying to get lost in his own mind so he could alleviate the feeling of unwelcome-ness that had settled in his heart.

            He knew that he had at least some acceptance in the form of Aaron Prichard, but he needed something more. He was able to blend in well enough in American society, but he still felt so ostracized. So... unneeded, unwanted even. He just needed something to happen... Something to show him...

            It was by complete fluke that Feliz saw what was going on in the parking lot. He had simply blindly turned his head and opened his eyes, and there they were; a group of men in shady clothing. They appeared to be cornering someone.

            _One of them has a gun._

            The observation is enough to attract Feliz’s full attention, and the depressing feeling in his heart rapidly shifts into one of slight panic. Trying not to bring too much attention to himself, Florence stood up and started walking for the exit. The ruffians passed by the door, not noticing him, so he took the risk of opening the door and dashing out, removing his Beretta from its holster at the same time.

            “Freeze!” Feliz barked. The crooks all turned to face him; behind them, he could see a man of African-American descent cornered, wearing black sunglasses and a leather jacket.

            In a matter of seconds, the ruffians were making a mad dash, hopping a fence into the neighboring lot.

            “I SAID FREEZE, NOT RUN!” Feliz shouted at them, about to chase after them.

            “Don’t waste your breath.”

            Feliz stopped and turned. He had been spoken to by the man in the sunglasses, who looked considerably calm considering the circumstances he had just been in. With a sigh, Feliz reluctantly put his gun back in its holster.

            “Are you alright?” He asked.

            The man nodded. “Thank you.”

            “What was that all about?”

            Now, the man shook his head. “Personal business. It’ll resolve itself.”

            Feliz tapped his foot, his hands on his hips. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he soon shrugged. “Well, just keep safe, alright? Call the cops if you have anymore trouble.”

            “Will do.”

            There was an odd moment of lingering; Florence felt like he was missing something, like the man in front of him was part of a bigger picture. He thought about apprehending him, but shook it off, and hesitantly went back into the restaurant. His timing was impeccable, as his number was then called. When he sat down with his food, he heard a motorcycle start up, and watched the man he rescued drive away. Something in his bones told him that wouldn’t be their last encounter, but he couldn’t explain why, so he absent-mindedly began to eat his taco.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Cat and the Dog](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6016111) by [Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry)




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